


Winter

by nogoaway



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Gen, Season/Series 09, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 17:49:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5752573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nogoaway/pseuds/nogoaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the MOI crashes Wash is stuck in the med bay, North goes back for Wash, and South takes care of her own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter

He still doesn't quite believe it's happening, but they do it, they crash on Sidewinder. The impact sends Wash rolling off the bed, and then he's scrambling to get out of the way as every heavy object in the recovery wing-- rolling carts, metal cabinets, cots, anything not bolted down-- slides and clatters towards the door. He wedges himself into the wall, breathing hard. Bruises bloom on his arms, his sides. He can't think, still has a headache and the alarms are going nuts. He cant get to the door. Someone will come, he thinks, to get him out of this. But he waits for a good hour, and the alarms finally stop blaring and swelling and chittering, and still no one comes.

Four hours later, when he's finally dug his way down to the door, hands numb and blue with bruises, he finds it locked. Wash laughs, and laughs. He's still laughing when there's a rattle from the ceiling-- well, it used to be the ceiling. It's a wall, now. The grate falls out with a clang and there's a flash of purple. North clambers down from the ventilator shaft, armor steaming. 

_What the fuck is going on?_ Wash tries to ask, but North's helmet is cracked down the visor and all the breath goes out of him at the sight.

"Are you hurt?" North tugs the helmet off, and there's blood on his face. Wind rushes down behind him through the vent shaft, scattering snow and ice. Wash shivers. 

"I'll be fine. Where is everyone?"

North just frowns, reaches for the door Wash couldn't get open and tears it off by the hinges with a pneumatic hiss from the armor. "You need your suit, you'll freeze."

"North," Wash says, reaching for him "Where are they?"

"Gone. What's the matter, can't you walk?"

There's ice melting in the joints and ridges of North's armor, and he leaves a trail of water behind him as he drops down into the hallway. He turns to spot Wash for the drop; Wash takes the hand he offers, his own palm seared with the cold metal.

"Define 'gone'," he says, and jumps down, landing quietly on his bare feet. The hull is freezing. 

"Gone," North says again, and tugs him down the hall.

* * *

 

 

"Stay low," North tells him, voice distorted through the damaged helmet when they turn the corner out of the medical wing, and then Wash is ducking under his body as bullets glance one after another off of North's armplate. North grunts, and a splash of hot blood hits Wash on the cheek as North hustles him behind a half-open slide door and returns fire with his SMG down the hall. At least they're in the main body of the ship, now, which seems to have landed mostly evenly.

"Who the fuck--" Wash starts, but North grabs him by the shoulder and herds him towards the locker rooms at the same time as he unholsters his Magnum and presses it into Wash's hand.

"Hostiles," he says, simply "get to your armor."

Wash wipes the blood from his face with the back of his wrist and stumbles onto the training room floor, scanning the open space as quickly as he can before ducking towards the locker room. North follows, and steps in front of Wash to sight down the rows of lockers before sealing the door behind them. The room is a mess-- lockers pushed over, benches askew, and what looks like buckshot sprayed into the wall.

Wash punches in his keycode and flings the door open. The photos of Skye and Arie stare out at him with big sweet cat eyes, but there's nothing else there.

"Fuck," he whispers, and digs his fingers into his hair. _Don't panic, Wash, they probably just moved it to your room--_

From the other side of the room, a sheet metal door bangs open with a clang, and North steps around the row with his sniper rifle at the ready.

"It's not here," Wash starts to say, but then the main door sides open a crack and he has to duck a spray of bullets at exactly chest height. North picks off one, two, three hostiles before the door is fully open, and Wash stares in horror at their uniforms.

"What the fuck are you _doing_? They're _crew_ , you maniac--"

"Check Tex's," North barks at him, and overturns a bench with his foot for cover, sinking to his belly behind it and firing rhythmically out into the training floor, where MOI personnel, people Wash has probably shared lunch with at some point, swarm towards them.

"Why would Tex-?" Tex doesn't even _use_ her locker.

" _Now_. Code is 'bluebonnet'." There's a scream of metal and Wash looks up from the keypad to see North shouldering an entire row of lockers in front of the door. 

Tex's locker opens, and there's his suit, his Ka-Bar, his modified SMG, and nothing else. Wash tugs the under-armor on over his scrubs with numb hands and straps the plating on as quickly as he can. Behind him, North's prying another ventilation cover off the wall.

Wash tugs his helmet on and is immediately hit with a barrage of pending messages, most of them marked 'urgent'. A recording of the Counselor starts playing immediately, and Wash can't seem to shut it off, so he's forced to listen to that scarily calm voice reading aloud a ship-wide warning about how _Agent Texas has gone rogue and is attempting to break into the facility, any co-conspirators will be shot on sight_ as he hefts himself up into the vent shaft and crawls on his knees and elbows after North.

Wash guesses he's in the category of co-conspirator at this point, although how he got there is beyond him. North's leaving smears of blood on the wall panels, but he's still moving and his aim is fine, so Wash doesn't divert energy to worrying about it just yet.

The light quality changes, and North kicks out at the wall, sending a panel clattering to the floor outside. He drops down, and Wash counts two shots before he even hears North's feet hit the floor.

"Clear," North says, and Wash jumps, rolling up onto his feet. They're in a part of the ship he's unfamiliar with- the walls are industrial-looking, unpolished; bare I-beams criss-cross over his head. It's dark and cold- either the heating is broken like in the med wing, or they're in some kind of cargo bay. 

A shadow skips by to his left. Wash fires on it reflexively, and then startles when North grabs him around the chest, forcing his gun arm down.

"Stop," he hisses, and Wash grits his teeth, easing up on the trigger.

"Jesus Christ, Wash," says South, stepping out from behind a concrete support pillar and carrying something huge he can't make out in the dark "Chill."

"I told you to meet me by the Pelican," North says, finally letting go of Wash. He sounds irritated.

"You were taking too long," South shrugs, flipping her headlamp on and cocking her head at him "and you didn't tell me you were coming back for _this_ loser."

"Fuck off," Wash tells her, and shrugs away from North. South's lamp sears a red circle into his field of vision.

"Why can't you just _trust_ me," North grits out, and South's laugh is so bitter and sharp Wash turns to look at her, glaring headlamp and all.

"Wow," she says "Just, wow. You're really an unbelievable little prick, aren't you?"

Wash doesn't know what's going on here, but he does know they can't waste any more time.

"Fight later, please," he says, gesturing at North with his elbow "I just got out of brain surgery and your 'little prick' of a big brother took a few shots to the arm."

South growls something that sounds like "fine", and hefts the big black thing up onto one shoulder. Wash realizes it's a missile pod at about the same moment North throws an arm over his head, and then South's letting it rip, punching a hole straight through the hull. The ripped titanium glows white-hot for a few seconds, and then a gust of snowy wind roars through, scattering shards of ice.

"Three klicks East North East," North tells him, voice faint over the clatter of hail, and a set of coordinates pop up on Wash's HUD before folding back into the massive stack of queued messages "They'll be scanning, so I'm cutting my radio-- if we get separated, meet up there."

It's night cycle on Sidewinder, but the snow and hail is so thick Wash can't tell which direction is up-- everything is white and moving in stinging flurries. North grabs him by the wrist and tugs, and Wash staggers after him, head down. He can make out a faint trail of blood in the snow. His head hurts. The adrenaline rush is wearing off and he's starting to remember how tired he is, how cold, how long it's been since he ate. 

The radio crackling jolts him awake. It's not North; a Command callsign, and it doesn't wait for him to accept, just beams right through.

"Agent Washington," the Counselor says, directly into his ear "I could not help but notice your absence from the medical wing."

Wash double checks to make sure he's not transmitting, and tries not to listen, just focuses on the ground in front of him and North's footprints filling up with snow. Co-conspirators. Shot on sight.

"David," the Counselor says "You should think very carefully about what you are doing. I understand that you may be confused or disoriented. You have just gotten out of surgery."

Wash grips North's wrist tighter. One foot in front of the other. One, two.

"While unauthorized absence will render you subject to court martial, a certain amount of leeway can be given under the circumstances." 

It's the first time Wash has been in snow. It didn't snow on the colony he grew up on. There weren't winters. He thinks North and South grew up in a wintry place, though. North was always talking about snowball fights, and making forts in the stuff, and sticking it down South's shirt to startle her. North always sounded like he missed snow.

"For instance, the Director is very interested in recovering certain items of property. A position has just opened up."

Wash has never had to walk in thick snow, but he's been in mud, and he’s been gut-shot, and this is just like that. You only have one job. Pick one foot up and put it down. That's all he has to do. He can do that. He doesn't even have to think, just slog through this dream world, keep his body awake and moving.

"Were you to accept said position, your absence would be considered... mission related."

But then North's hand goes limp around his wrist and Wash trips over his legs where he's collapsed in the snow, and suddenly he's awake again, all of him, brain to toes. Wash shoulders the sniper rifle and kneels down, hefting North up by the armpits and dragging him the last quarter mile. His arms and legs are screaming by the time he spots South chipping at what looks like just another snow-covered boulder with the barrel of her Magnum. Wash pulls North all the way up and leans him against the side of what he really hopes is the Pelican. North waves at him sluggishly, so at least he's regained some degree of consciousness.

He trudges over to help South, and when she manages to tear free a hunk of ice the size of Wash's head he can just make out a hinge. Wash digs his KA-BAR into the groove and scrapes ice lengthwise while South keeps hunting for the catch, but they both know the dimensions of a troop carrier and once there's a reference point it doesn't take long.

There's a hiss loud enough to hear even over the wind, and the bay door unfolds, crunching snow and ice. South brushes past Wash to grab her brother around the waist, and then they're in, all three of them, tripping over one another and ending up in a pile. South untangles herself and closes the bay door and it's suddenly, blissfully quiet again. Wash's ears ring, and he tugs his helmet off, staring dumbly into the dark interior of the troop carrier until South clicks her headlamp on and the bay is flooded with light.

"Oh, that stupid fuck," she says, and kneels down next to her brother. North's helmet has fallen off, and Wash remembers the cracked visor with a start. North's lips are blue, and the skin on the left side of his face is an angry red with hints of yellow-gray frostnip. His eyelashes are clumped together with ice; crystals of it gather on the pale hairs around his nose and mouth. 

South's stripping her armor off, pulling down the under-suit, tucking North's face into her armpit. It would be funny, if Wash wasn't so worried, and when South starts tugging off the hand plates and gloves North's fingers are blue. The crack in his face place must have compromised the heat retention of the entire suit. It's below zero out there, and with the windchill--

"Jesus," Wash says, and kneels down next to them, suddenly hyper-aware of how North's not moving, it's just South pulling and tugging and trying to get his extremities folded into her own. "How can I-- should I...?" Stupid question, but emergency or no he's a little reluctant to start just stripping down in front of Agent South Dakota, resident ball-buster.

"Don't be a fucking idiot," South hisses. " _Help_ me." Her eyes are wild in the low light. "Nothing I haven't seen before."

“Uh, yeah," Wash agrees, and between fumbling his own plates off with numb hands and unzipping the back of North's under-suit, peeling neoprene away from skin so pale and bluish it looks alien, he's got plenty to think about other than South's nudity and North calmly putting a bullet through an MOI regulation helmet with Communications colors. Wash plasters himself to North's back and tucks North's feet between his calves. They're frigid. He's afraid to look at them. He's afraid to think about how slowly North's chest is rising and falling, but he can't help counting anyway.

"His arm," Wash mutters, but South's already got pressure on it. 

"If he dies," she says, over North's shoulder "it'll be your fault."

Wash should argue with her, but he can't think of a way to word it that doesn't include, on some level, the fact that no one else came back for him. That it took North _hours_ to decide he was worth coming back for. So he doesn't say anything, just presses his forehead to North's spine, lets the heat leach from his body into what feels uncomfortably like dead flesh. His head is hurting again, but it's a different hurt than the throbbing, nauseating pain he's been plagued by this past week, the pain that sent him hurtling out of himself and into somewhere-- someone-- else. This is just medical-hurt: skin and bone and muscle. He should still be in the ward, on painkillers, but after Epsilon-- 

He must space out for a moment, because when he next hears South she's whispering, and North's skin is much warmer under his cheek. He's breathing faster, too.

" _Bratik_ ," South whispers. "Little brother, wake up. Kolya." Wash has never heard her call him anything but North; that more than anything tells him that he shouldn't be hearing this.

"North." She shakes his arm, the wounded one she's got her hand clamped around, a pale bloody vise "Kolya, I know you can hear me, I swear to god--"

North groans, and Wash's sigh of relief is just a touch too loud; South's head pops up again over her brother's shoulder, and her face is drawn and furious. 

"He's okay," Wash says, trying to sound soothing. "He'll be fine. He's warming up."

"Fuck off," South grits out, and tucks North's head under her chin. She's shaking, nuzzling into his hair and breathing too hard and too loud to not be on the edge of tears. Wash looks away.

North moans raggedly, muffled in South's skin.

"I know it hurts," she rasps. "Don't be a baby."

Wash can't tell at first if North jerking under him is shivering, or laughter, but when it keeps going and North doesn't say anything else Wash decides on shivering; North's not conscious, but it's still an improvement. He relaxes slightly. They’ll be okay. They’ll get out of this. They’re a _team_.

His helmet radio crackles, filling the bay with echoing static, and Wash’s heart stops.

"Agent Washington," says the Director, voice massive and flat. 

South's eyes on his are huge and luminous with unshed tears, pupils blown wide. Over North's shoulder, their faces are only inches apart. She looks like a predator, something arctic and sharp-toothed. Wash can't look away.

"Have you considered our proposition?"

South moves fast, but it doesn't matter either way; Wash is paralyzed. The barrel of her Magnum is an icy circle against his forehead, right between the eyes.

They're both panting, he realizes. Her breath is a white fog against his nose and mouth. North is still breathing slow, trapped between them and dead to the world.

"It would warm him up," she says, with a blank calm that Wash cannot help but respect. "If I blew your brains out all over him."

_Temporarily_ , Wash wants to say, or, _please_ , but he can't make his mouth work.

"In case the Counselor did not inform you, David," the Director says "this position is time-sensitive."

"But for some unknowable fucking reason," South licks her saber-tooth lips. "He likes you. So you're going to stand up, very slowly, and put your suit back on, and then you're going to walk out the door."

Wash swallows. 

"Now," South says. " _David_." The 'before I change my mind' is implied.

"I didn't tell them anything," he manages, but his limbs unstick, and he's zipping the under-suit back up, fumbling his greaves on.

"He went back for you," she hisses. "Because he's fucking stupid like that. I'm not. Understand?"

"I'll die out there," Wash says, and bends to retrieve the helmet. 

"Maybe." The Magnum cocks, and shifts incrementally down and to the left, away from his head. "More likely if I shoot out your climate unit."

"We were a team." Wash stops by the bay door, hand hovering by the panel. 

"No," South says, simply. "We weren't. We were family, and the rest of you, and he went back for you anyway. Go."

Wash opens the door and staggers out into the storm sideways, hit by a wall of wind and sleet. Behind him, the Pelican roars, splashing his calves with waste heat from the engine. It's gone within a minute, leaving only a pool of rapidly refreezing water.  He can't even tell which direction it went. 

"Perhaps," the Director says in his ear, "We can offer you an incentive. Name your price, Agent Washington."

Wash stares down at his hands, the ice already crusting into the wrinkles of his gloves, the seams of his armor. His head throbs. 

It took _four hours_ before anyone came for him.

He opens a broadcast channel, and sells himself to Command for an extraction and 1,000 credits.


End file.
